


Lucky

by Diary



Series: Dog Saved World [5]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: American Sign Language, Awkward Conversations, Bechdel Test Pass, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Deaf Clint Barton, Drunken Shenanigans, F/M, Flashbacks, Late Night Conversations, Natasha Romanov-centric, POV Female Character, POV Natasha Romanov, Romance, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 06:54:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6413467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diary/pseuds/Diary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you want to punch me, kick me, knock me down, or even literally try to stab me, I promise you I’ll match you, if not leave you in more pain than you could hope to inflict on me. But making my heart literally ache within in my chest just by speaking- Complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lucky

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own The Avengers.

“Move, Widow,” Hawkeye orders.

“No,” she murmurs.

“Widow, move!”

Ignoring the stream of curses and threats, she looks over at the target. Sheila Graymond is barely twenty, stupidly angry, and brilliant in every other way.

“If I move,” Natasha tells her, “my partner is going to put an arrow through your heart.”

Sheila looks at her in fear.

“It won’t hurt as bad as you think, but there will be no way to stop your imminent death. If you drop to the floor and let me put handcuffs on you, you’ll be escorted to a cell. You’ll be tried, and you’ll be found guilty.”

“And then, I’ll wish for death,” Sheila retorts.

“I’m former KGB,” Natasha says. “I’ve killed numerous civilians. S.H.I.E.L.D. put me in a cell, gave me books, and once it was clear I could be trusted without 24/7 surveillance, I was offered a job. There are still orders to kill me if I deviate, but I’m allowed an off-base apartment and vacation time.”

“There are no orders to kill you,” Hawkeye practically squawks. “Natasha? Tell me you’re just playing her. You don’t believe…”

She tunes him out.

“I don’t want to work for S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“Fine. On my life, I promise, you won’t be mistreated. You might spend the rest of your life in a cell, but as long as you don’t resort to violence or try to escape, you’ll have certain privileges. Someday, you might even be released.”

“And spend the rest of my life under surveillance!”

Rolling her eyes, Natasha sighs. “You are not some victim who was forced to do horrible things. You didn’t commit a harmless prank. Being angry isn’t the same as having your mind twist against itself and force you to do things you wouldn’t in good health. No one died because of you, but you ruined countless lives. You ruined countless lives, and your free will and your ability to comprehend what you were doing while you were doing it were both intact when you did.”

“You don’t deserve to walk away without consequences. And I think you’ve figured out by now that, even if you get past me and dodge my partner’s arrows, you will never be free. For as long as you are alive, people are going to be hunting you due to what you’ve done. S.H.I.E.L.D. resorts to killing only when a threat can’t be contained. You were deemed uncontainable. But I’m giving you a chance. You don’t have to die today.”

Blinking back tears, Sheila stares at her.

She stares back.

“Okay,” Sheila finally says. “Okay. I’ll- I’ll get down.”

“Slowly,” Natasha orders. “And remember, my partner is watching from above.”

Sheila doesn’t try anything, and once Natasha has hand and ankle cuffs on her and has removed the weapons off her, she says, “Prisoner secure. You’re explaining this to Coulson, Hawkeye.”

She expects him to protest and point out this is deviation is completely on her, but instead, he makes a sound she thinks might be a breath of relief and says in a tone so sincere and almost awed she feels uncomfortable, “Good job, Nat. God, you’re amazing. I think I might love you.”

Trying to focus on Sheila, she says, “If you ever rethink possibly joining S.H.I.E.L.D., try to choose your partner carefully. Torture is explicitly forbidden, but mine makes a game out of it.”

While Sheila is looking at her with an uneasy expression, Hawkeye slides down and lands beside them.

Sheila jumps.

“Relax, darling,” he tells Sheila. “She’s a special case. I only torture her out of self-preservation. She started it.”

“Victim blaming,” she retorts.

Laughing, he grins at them. “Sure. Agent Romanov a victim of anything, anytime, anywhere, in any universe.”

“What’s the protocol for taking her in?”

He looks thoughtful. “This is completely your call, Nat, but I was thinking- maybe we could feed her, first?”

Sheila continues to look at them in fearful confusion.

“Fine,” she agrees. “Here’s the deal: The last time Hawkeye was able to bring in someone he was sent to kill, he- let’s just say he decided they were good friends. That isn’t going to be the case with you, but S.H.I.E.L.D’s food is often bland. If you promise to behave, you can have one last meal as a semi-free woman.”

“I have a pet iguana,” Sheila blurts out. “His name is Jimmy. I know I can’t keep him, but- he can’t survive in the wild, and my neighbour isn’t going to stop over to take care of him indefinitely.”

…

After Sheila has eaten an astounding amount of chocolate pancakes, French fries, and white chocolate and drank more than her weight in blueberry lemonade, Natasha and Clint hand off their sleeping prisoner to Coulson.

“Here,” Clint says. He holds out some antacids and anti-nausea syrup. “If she refuses a few meals over the next couple of days, don’t mark her down as hunger striking or a potential suicide risk. And maybe keep her very close to the bathroom for the next few hours.”

“I’m torn between congratulating you two and lecturing you,” Coulson responds.

“Which of them involves us not having to pay for all of this,” she asks.

Chuckling, he shakes his head. “Oh, no. Whether what you did is admirable or not, neither of you will be compensated for any of the food or these.” He waves the medicines.

“What about the-” Clint starts.

“I will see what I can do about the donation you made to the animal shelter. That was completely unnecessary, but- well.” He shrugs.

“Thank you, sir,” Clint says.

“Be back to headquarters by tomorrow,” Coulson orders.

...

After Coulson leaves with the gurney containing Sheila, Clint announces, “I’ve never had sake. Have you? I think I want to try some.”

“I’ve had it a few times. It’s never made much of an impression on me,” she answers. “But I’ll toast you.”

…

She’s in the state where everything is pleasantly warm but not drowsy. She couldn’t in good conscience get between the driver’s seat of anything motorised, but she knows she can still walk a straight line and engage in physical combat if needed.

Clint, it turns out, is even more cuddly than usual.

“Hey,” he rubs his cheek against her hair, “let’s dance.”

“Okay."

 _This might not be a good idea_ , some part of her knows.

Her sense of smell is sharpened, or maybe she’s just paying more attention to it than she usually is. In any case, his smell makes her want to lick him and nibble on him and rub her nose all over his body.

His hands are warm on her back, and she wants his fingers to trace over her. She’s seen him with weapons, and she’s seen him with affectionately wiggling animals, and she thinks she could appreciate him figuring out how she works more than the former could and get an entirely different pleasure than the latter ever would.

She looks up to find his eyes studying her.

There are things she desperately hopes he never finds out about, but at the same time, if he asked right now, she couldn’t lie with those eyes on hers.

 _I’ll tell you anything,_ part of her thinks as another part points out, _I’m drunk, and I need to get somewhere where I won’t cause trouble for myself while I sober up._

She finds herself moving, and he’s moving, and the awkwardness of the kiss only makes her tingle more. She wants to learn his mouth, teach him hers, and-

Their pelvises make contact, and an insistent part sharply comes into focus. _Public indecency! My room is cleaner, but his is closer._

_Screw it. If we end up on some dirty clothes, we end up on some dirty clothes._

“Want to take me to your room,” she asks.

She knows she wouldn’t actually kill him if he said no, but she still poses her knife to cut herself if she happens to try making any movements which would cause him pain.  

Some part of her insists flipping him onto the floor and jabbing his sensitive spots isn’t anything she hasn’t done before, but the rest of her, the part despising those who abuse those close to them and believe themselves entitled to receive sexual pleasure from others, knows why it would be different this time.

“Happy to, Tasha,” he croaks out.

Making her knife safe, she thanks every deity she thinks could potentially be responsible for her good fortune.

They get to his room, and pushing him into a chair, she climbs on top of him. “You can touch me anywhere. Just assume you have a yes unless I say no, okay?”

“Okay,” he agrees.

He reaches up to kiss her, and everything narrows when his fingers slip under her shirt and start trailing downward.

 _Yes, yes, please,_ she thinks.

Pushing aside her worry she might be saying this aloud, she focuses on the sensations. He can take her apart, she decides, make her scream, and if she ends up begging, it’ll be okay. She can trust him.

Besides, when she figures out how his body works and takes him apart, he might just beg and/or scream, too.

His fingers are so close, just a few more inches, just a few more-

His damn reflexes are the only reasons one of their phones isn’t currently embedded with a knife.

She finds herself on her back with one of his hands over her mouth and the other pinning her wrists above her head as he tries to hold the traitorous phone between his ear and shoulder.

 _I can work with this_ , she decides.

She brings her legs up, wraps them around his waist, and tries to scoot him back so their pelvises are aligned.

He groans, and it’s beautiful.

“No,” he says with a firm look.

She will forgive for herself for the bite she inflicts.

After she brings her legs back down and stops wiggling, he continues, “No, sir. Sorry. Um. I’m- I drank more than I should have. Yeah, Tasha’s fine. She- uh. She’s on the, uh, floor. I’m not exactly- Could you hold on, sir, please? I need-”

He releases her wrists, removes his hand from over her mouth, and moves off her.

She lets out a noise she desperately hopes whoever is on the other end of the line doesn’t hear, and he immediately puts one of his free hands in her hair and gently tugs on her curls.

Closing her eyes, she focuses on the gentle pull and his mostly steady voice.

“I understand. Yeah, I’ll- I’ll bring Natasha up to speed.”

Then, his fingers are gone.

She’s sure she has another knife somewhere on her person.

_I am not owed physical contact._

_I want him so badly to touch me, and I don’t see why I can’t kill whoever was on the other end._

“Tasha,” he says.

His quietness makes her snap her eyes up to his.

“Hey,” he says. “You focusing?”

Nodding, she sits up.

 _Does S.H.I.E.L.D._ _officially consider torture or killing to be worse?_

“Sheila managed to sleepwalk out of custody. She’s still alive, and she’s actually still asleep, but they need us to provide extra security.”

“You get the coffee and whatever over-the-counter stuff might help, and I’ll get the food,” she sighs.

“I’ll get you some tea,” he says. “It can be just as helpful.”

“Whatever you think,” she mutters.  

…

After Sheila is safely in a cell and they’ve been debriefed and allowed to leave base, Natasha goes to her apartment, gets ready, and then, opens door to find Clint is about to knock on it.

“Come in,” she says. “I was about to go to your place.”

Shutting the door, he signs, _In that?_

She simply nods.

He loves this dress, and they both know it.

Any attempts she makes with other people to keep her cards close became meaningless when she climbed the fire escape to his hotel after he decided not to kill her.

He sighs. “Tasha-”

She waits.

Saying _I fixed your hearing aids for you and you trust me to sleep next to you without them and I don’t think I might love you_ would be even worse than thinking those things.

She’s heard rumours of her having sex with him in repayment for not killing her.

In the past, when sex was a tool and occasionally a weapon, maybe, this reasoning would have been true, she knows. As it is, though, if Agent Barton had tried to have sex with her when they first met or soon after, one or both of them would be dead.

She does owe him a lot. She owes him for the easy trust she did nothing to earn, and she owes him for _You had no right to ask Fury for a transfer just because I pointed out how badly you screwed up the mission, Romanov; you did screw up, and I had the right to yell at you. Probably shouldn’t have gone as far as I did, fine. You want an apology for hitting below the belt? Then, be mature enough to tell me instead of doing something like this!_

He continually insists she owes him for breaking his favourite pair of sunglasses in Paris, and she still holds firm on: it was his fault, and she will not apologise, and she certainly won’t buy him a new pair.

None of these debts have anything to do with the fact he loves animals more than he likes most people, he sometimes signs in his sleep, his flirting isn’t restricted by size, ethnicity, or marital status, and to some degree, it’s not restricted by age or gender, either, or the fact he won’t admit he needs glasses to read and will try to force her to read for him when she tries to refuse.

None of these debts are responsible for the fact she desperately wanted his fingers to make it those few inches down, his smile is enough to always make her feel warm inside, and not only does she want to explore his body and figure out how to use her body to make him happy, she wants them to explore her body together to find out how he can make her happy with his.

She’s had dreams where _I think I might love you_ is only four words, and one of them is her name. _Natasha, Nat, Tasha, Tash_ , it doesn’t matter; they’re all her name when it comes to him.

There are things he owes her, too, but those words, his body, and even his friendship aren’t part of them. 

She wouldn’t want them, anyways, not if they weren’t freely given, but sometimes, she instinctively finds herself wondering, _Why? What do I have to do to make you? Why don’t you want me the way I want you?_

“We should- Do you want to talk about what happened?”

“I think we should,” she answers. “Sit down. I’ll get water. What do you want?”

“Soda?”

She nods.

She only has soda in her apartment because he drinks it, and she wonders if he knows this.

Once they’ve sat down, she says, “I don’t regret it, but if you do-”

“No,” he says.

It comes out quickly, but she can see the sincerity in his eyes, and she lets herself hope.

“No,” he repeats. “But Tasha-”

 _Who gave you the right_ , she sourly wonders. _If you want to punch me, kick me, knock me down, or even literally try to stab me, I promise you I’ll match you, if not leave you in more pain than you could hope to inflict on me. But making my heart literally ache within in my chest just by speaking- I know words that could hurt you, but I doubt any of them would be this painful._

Then, of course, there’s the thought, _Oh, right. I did. I’ll never regret not killing you the first night I snuck into your hotel room, and I’ll always regret trying to burn you alive, but if I could go back-_

Maybe she’d sedate and lock her younger self down until after Hawkeye left the country. Maybe she’d make herself flee or just be uncooperative once she was taken in S.H.I.E.L.D. custody.

She doesn’t think death would be preferable, but assuming her younger self could be made to believe her, she’s not convinced a cell next to Sheila’s isn’t more what she deserves.

“Just say it, Clint. It was fun. It was- nice. I still wish I’d put my dagger through the phone. But it being a one-time almost thing isn’t going to break me, if that’s where you’re heading. If you’re not, I’m in this dress, and an automatic yes is still my default.”

He exhales heavily, laughs, and rubs his face. Looking at her, he groans and shakes his head.

“God, Tasha- Look, you know how amazing you are. And I promise, I couldn’t forget it if I tried. You’re also the closest thing I have to a best friend,” he says, and the warmth those words provide is dampened by the desperation in his tone.

“I just- Maybe sex wouldn’t screw things up, but I need you more like that than I do anything else.”

She makes sure to keep her tone light. “No. You need me more as your partner in the field than you do anything else. But otherwise: Okay. We’ll avoid sake on missions. You’re welcome to stay the night, but don’t sprout any crap about taking the couch. Now that it’s laid out, neither of us is going to get any ideas.”

He looks at her with such relief and adoration, and she can’t pin down which overwhelming feeling inside her is currently the strongest.

Then, however, something comes across his face, and warning bells go off inside her.

“Nat,” he says. “First, don’t hurt me. Second- are you sure you laid everything out?”

She tugs his ear, and glaring, he kicks her leg.

“I’m sure there are things you didn’t say, and there are things I’m not going to say,” she calmly tells him. “That doesn’t make the truth of my words any less.”

Visibly relaxing, he strokes her hand.

She leans against him. “I found a new radio talk show. Do you want to listen to it with me?”

He grins. “Always, darling."

Rolling her eyes, she starts to get up, but he reaches over to squeeze her arm. “Here, I’ll do it.”

While he’s getting the portable radio, she stretches out on the couch.

When he comes back, he sets the radio on the coffee table, puts her feet in his lap when he sits down, and asks, “What station?”

She tells him, and when he finds it and turns to look at her, she lets herself focus on how happy she is to be able to sit in her apartment and laugh as he works himself in a snapping fit over the host’s opinion on what’s deemed acceptable treatment of circus animals.

There was a time when she never would have believed she could be so lucky.


End file.
